I’m hooked on the book Heat by Bill Buford; so much so I spent most of Saturday with my head buried behind the bright yellow cover. For those of you who don’t know about the book, it chronicles Bill’s time working as a lackey in Mario Batali’s kitchen at Babbo. What’s so extraordinary about this premise you may ask? Bill isn’t a young chef straight out of culinary school. No…he’s a middle aged writer who got a hair up his ass and decided to throw himself at the mercy of Batali’s kitchen. I was unabashedly hooked from the moment I picked it up, so when my stomach started grumbling Saturday night, I wanted something fairly quick but delicious. And what’s a better dinner on a Saturday night than pancakes
I don’t want to hear anything about the fact that I was home with a book on Saturday night. Trust me, I get enough of it from my friends (the term “old lady” has been thrown around to describe me…my love of the Golden Girls and Murder, She Wrote don’t help my case). But sometimes my party clothes can be so binding (major points for anyone who can identify that line), so I stay in and enjoy the company of a great book. Who are you to judge me?